


Monument

by PartlyCloudySkies



Category: Outer Wilds (Video Game)
Genre: Conversations moments before disaster, Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:34:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22871833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PartlyCloudySkies/pseuds/PartlyCloudySkies
Summary: Your works will be remembered. Your song will be sung.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58





	1. The Wounded Heart

No sooner had the alarm sounded when the stillness of the workshop was interrupted by the calamitous crack of a lightning bolt splitting the air. The omnipresent whistle of the wind that throttled through gaps and trellises guttered out as the storm closed in, whipping the currents into a frenzied chaos. All that din and fury, the herald of the oncoming storm, was fed into the sensors that dotted the island and became plotted, predictable, accounted for. Island computers booted up the storm shelters and residents, long used to the terrifying cyclones, calmly filtered into safety.

For all his love of the craft, Phlox never much minded the constant interruption of storms. It provided a break from the work, allowing to remember to take a lunch and a step back to lend a more critical eye to the work, which was why there was a shelter installed right in front of Phlox's workspace.

And also, no sculptor ever got anywhere without seeing a true master ply the craft.

Here in Giant's Deep, all the rocks were sculpted by wind and water. Its dramatic cliff faces and breath taking arches were the result of untold years of erosion and storm-tossed tumult. If it weren't for the urgent nature of his work, Phlox felt that making a study of the elements that shaped the islands of Giant's Deep would be an entirely acceptable way of passing the time.

It was the reason he chose this world as the site of his workshop. One of the reasons. There was also the material. The very stuff of the island: light as pumice, pliable as soapstone, strong as quartz. There was some debate as to where these islands originated. Not from Giant's Deep, which was water and storms all the way down. Some massive meteor, perhaps. Or the shattered remains of the planet that was where Dark Bramble lurked. The wild overgrowth of one of the islands suggested as much. Phlox liked that hypothesis. That the rocks themselves had been victim to the bramble, that together — rock and Nomai — they were working towards the solution to a mystery that the bramble had cruelly denied them.

Perhaps that solution was further away than they had thought.

The island lifted, propelled by storm. Tools, chisels, hammers, more, all lashed to their stations shuddered under the force of it. Then hung in the air as the moment of weightlessness came. And just as quickly, it passed. The island crashed back down into the world-spanning ocean.

A small toss, this time. Barely worth seeking safety for.

Once back in calm waters, the shelters powered down across the island. Phlox stepped out of his own and returned to his work, legs compensating as the island bobbed.

It was possible that the Nomai of Giant's Deep were the only Nomai in the entire galaxy who had sea legs. Not the most consequential observation, but everyone who chose to make their life here liked to make it from time to time to the point where it had become a point of pride. Easy to tell who was just visiting the planet versus the ones who had made their home here.

Phlox had only just returned to his half-finished statue, carving tool in hand, when the workshop door slid open.

“Ride out the storm okay, Phlox? Nothing out of place, I hope.” The statement was in jest. Daz, above all others, knew how much work Phlox had put in to make sure nothing comes out of place during a storm.

“Stars forbid it, Daz. How are you? Your spouse is well?”

“Fine, fine. Cassava is… Cassava.” Daz shrugged, water coming off his shoulders in rivulets. “He seems to be doing well enough considering the circumstances. He is overseeing cleanup of the construction yard. I’ll be joining him once I’m done here. I think he, of all of us, was the one who expected all this to be for nothing.”

“Not for nothing, I think,” Phlox said, shaving off a piece of rock with his chisel. It was important to get the fur just right. What Nomai would want to see a statue, meant to last the ages, with an unkempt mane? “You and Cassava put in a great deal of work. The probe launcher is a piece of art.” Phlox reached over for his wire brush and swept debris off the statue.

“I suppose, yes. It felt good to work on it. But now…” Daz fell silent. As surely as the sensors could predict the next oncoming twister, Phlox could feel the question in the air waiting to burst into the room. “You’re… still working on the statues? Even after the failure?”

Phlox smiled and squinted at the unfinished rock, planning his next move. “I am indeed. Memory circuitry and all.”

“Surely we don’t need anymore. The Ash Twin Project has been suspended.”

“You don’t suspend art, Daz. It happens. All the time.” Phlox positioned his hammer and chisel and struck. Hammer strikes filled the workshop, echoing off the walls. Each note rang sharp and high and clear and were followed by the soft whisper and clatter of excess rock falling from the statue. Phlox could no more leave a Nomai statue half-finished than he could leave a living Nomai to drown in the waters of Giant’s Deep. It needed to be free.

“It appears you can definitely suspend science projects,” Daz said once Phlox ceased hammering.

“I did receive the same message,” Phlox said. He cleared away more excess and studied his work. “That is the one thing our esteemed and very admirable scientists have never quite understood.” He looked up at Daz. “The Ash Twin Project was an art project this entire time.”

“I’m an engineer, Phlox. I’m afraid I just build things.”

Phlox frowned. “Come now, don’t resort to parochial dichotomies just because of this — admittedly — demoralizing setback.”

Daz’s lips twitched upward. “Says the person who just suggested a division between art and science.”

“Ah, indeed. You do have me there. Science is also art.”

“Is that why you insisted in carving each warp tower to evoke its destination?”

“What good is science without a little soul in it? Plus it was quite fun.”

Daz was smiling now. “Very well, I shall bite. Why is the Ash Twin Project, the most ambitious scientific endeavor in know Nomai history, an art project?”

“A question for a question: what is science?”

“An attempt to understand the natural world,” Daz said, rattling off some school-age catechism all Nomai children learned.

“And what is the Ash Twin Project?”

“An attempt to understand the Eye of the Universe.” Daz said. He saw the rhetorical “but” that was coming. He saw it before he answered but he answered all the same. Working with Phlox all this time, he had come to recognize that it was best to let him talk.

“Ah, but no,” Phlox said. “We already understand the Eye. The Eye is a signal older than the universe itself that appeared for a brief moment, and then disappeared.”

“Cassava did say something similar,” said Daz. “However I think that leaves a lot unsaid. What is the _source_ of the signal?”

“Ah, well, that is another question entirely. A question which, I believe, is inextricable from another question. _Why were we made to suffer so?_ The answer to one, I suspect, answers the other.” Phlox refocused on the statue long enough to chip away at an imperfection on the sloping neck. The horns and much of the face was done, so the hard work was behind him. All that remained was to free the rest of the figure from the rock.

“You see,” he continued, “the Ash Twin Project is not just a search for some cosmic answer. It is an investigation of our own history. Why did so many of our people die? Why was our Vessel ensnared? Why was the space between the stars so cruelly taken from us? What was it for? I look at the Ash Twin Project and I see something so heartbreaking and beautiful. A great, fearsome engine built around a star, exploding over and over and over. What minds we have, that we can conceive of something so awesome and so terrifying! So very desperate and monstrous and dangerous. Does science alone compel us to go this far? I don’t believe so. Perhaps Pye can lay out the logic, step by step, of what leads us to believe destroying an entire star is the only rational choice, but does logic alone mandate that we go so far? No, not logic alone. Ah, excuse me.”

Phlox stepped back to give the statue a critical once-over. Then tapped his chisel delicately with the hammer. The chisel blade bit into the shoulder of the statue.

“We are a wounded people,” Phlox said, putting the chisel back down. “Our arrival to this star system scarred us terribly. And though we have made a home for ourselves, it is a tenuous one with settlements huddled into the dark corners of hostile worlds. We are traumatized, our hearts are wounded, and what a beautiful artistic statement the Ash Twin Project is of that trauma! A delicate machine, surrounded by a hardened shell of dense metal, shouting endlessly into the night in search of answers.”

“And all for nothing. The project didn’t work,” said Daz.

Phlox shrugged and regarded his statue again. “There is value in work, even if the outcome is not what you had hoped. I’m quite fond of my statues, for instance, even if they may never be used for their intended purpose. I never had to make them, you know. There simply needed to be a sufficiently durable casing that could contain the memory circuits. But I think there’s something comforting about them as representations of ourselves. ‘Our works will be remembered’ they seem to say. At least, they do to me. Mark my words, Daz.” Plox shook his chisel at him for emphasis. “The Ash Twin Project may not work, but the presence of it will become a source of comfort for us once the initial bitter disappointment has passed. It will be a testament to how far we are willing to go, a fine legacy. Good will come of it, in ways we can’t immediately see. That is the nature of art.”

“You should relay that to the others who worked so hard on the project,” Daz said. “I am sure they would appreciate it.”

“Perhaps I will. Once I finish with this. How are they taking things, anyway?”

“Oh, hard, for the most part.” Daz said. “Yarrow is doing what he can to keep their minds off of it. A survey team tracked a comet entering the star system from outside. Its trajectory will cause it to be captured by the sun’s gravity, so we have a new neighbor to explore and that’s caused some excitement. But…” He moved forward and gestured a farewell to Phlox, who returned it. “That’s for them. I am going to join my spouse at the construction yard and assist there.”

“Do send him my best. Perhaps I will drop by to help once I have completed this. Art is all well and good but we should also help each other.”

“That would be appreciated. But don’t feel the need to hurry. Art is all well and good and should not be rushed.”

They exchanged good-byes and soon Phlox had the relative quiet of his workshop once again. The howling winds were easy to filter out, a background sound that any Giant’s Deep native would sorely miss whenever they went off-world but would otherwise ignore.

Alone, Phlox took the time to examine his work a bit more closely. It was always so hard to talk and sculpt, though he did love to do so. He inspected his work around the neck, where the hollow would later be fitted with jewelry that would comprise part of the memory circuit. Then he checked the mane, the curve of the lips, and the eyes.

A wet track down the corner of one eye caught his attention. It wasn’t uncommon. Especially after a cyclone picked the island up. There was a great big hole in the center of the workshop that water washed through. Once it splashed the ceiling it would drip down for hours. That it looked strikingly like a tear running from an eye caused him a brief hesitation. An artist had to appreciate the little moments of serendipity.

But also, the artist had to care of their materials and moisture on the statue could lead to sedimentary deposit forming inside tiny crevices. Phlox brushed the water away with a rag. Satisfied, he continued his check. The eyes and their mechanisms for opening and closing, the delicate horns, those always required special care.

The sound of hammer and chisel filled the workshop again, the clarion sound of their strike audible, ringing across the island and mingling with the raging storms and driving rain.


	2. The Final Campfire

From up high, the village lights peeked out from between the gaps of trees like fireflies. Lanterns and campfires and warm yellow light streaming from cabin windows, all blinking in and out of view as branches swayed in the night’s breeze.

Hornfels took in a deep breath, the air tinged with the scent of leaves and the mist of the village geyser and a hint of rocket fuel. They leaned on the rail encircling the observatory and looked out at the spacecraft on the launch tower. It was a squat, bulky thing with a big bulbous head and spindly legs looking like Spinel’s favored fish bait. It sat there, veiled in the night, waiting.

And so was Hornfels.

They turned and leaned against the rail, tilting their head up at the stars wheeling overhead. It had been remarked — by more than a few neighbors — that Hornfels spent so much time looking at stars through a telescope that they’d forgotten what the night sky looked like without it. And yes, they had to admit, it did look beautiful. It did look majestic. And it was easy to forget, under the sheer number of stars, how they were all flying away. So far, so fast, so distant. A redshift retreat that sometimes left Hornfels huddling against the wall next to the bed, lest the cabin would fall away.

Moments like that were why it was smart to get out from under the observatory dome and all the charts and equations.

Overlooking the lip of the canyon, the Attlerock was a sliver on the horizon. The motions of moon and planets was as ingrained into Hornfel’s head as their own four eyes, they knew the motions as well as they knew their own morning routine.

And if the Attlerock was lined up properly that meant…

Somewhere within their observatory, Hornfels heard a burst of static.

 _There it is._ They didn’t need to have an education on the workings of the mind to realize that even the most antisocial of Hearthian’s appetite for solitude had its limit. Like a bucket near to overflowing, sometimes that urge to hear another voice threatened to spill out over the edge. Hornfels stood. Esker had hit their limit, right on the dot.

Sparing one last look at the village, the ship, the stars, Hornfels ducked back into the observatory.

The figure staring at them down the hall gave Hornfels a small start before they remembered Gabbro’s latest find. Maybe putting the Nomai statue right there wasn’t the wisest decision Hornfels had made as a curator. They weren’t quite sure yet. A question worth sleeping on. As they passed it by, they reached out with one hand, tracing the curve of its sculpted mane. Delicate work, but strong.

Their transceiver blared again as they circled around the museums displays and up the spiral ramp. “Yes, yes,” Hornfels said mildly.

They took the time to pour a fresh cup of tea from a battered red thermos. Something herbal that Porphy swore by for relaxation, and when Hornfels breathed it in they couldn’t argue against it, on account of being too relaxed. They smiled softly as they walked past the orrery, the familiar click of it as comforting as birdsong as its clockwork planets spun around the sun.

With a sigh, they settled into the squeaky chair set up in front of their latest charts and observations. On a shelf nailed to the wooden wall was a small gray box, held together with screw and tape with a single red light on top, blinking angrily. Hornfels leaned in, unhooked the mouthpiece and pressed a button.

“What took you?” Esker grumbled on the other side of the line. Their voice crackled. The Attlerock was not yet at the optimum position for a clear signal, but it would get there in time.

“Just enjoying the stars. They’re looking fine tonight.”

“I suppose, for those who have other things to look at.”

“Not too bored up there, are you?” Hornfels said, smiling into the mouthpiece. 

“I am not having this conversation again,” Esker said.

“I can get a chessboard sent to you.”

“You cheat.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Checkers.”

“Don’t insult me.”

“Never.” Hornfels leaned back, their chair creaking as they put there feet up on the shelf next to the transceiver. “Anything new to report?”

“Chert’s settled in. What’ve you got them all the way to the Twins for?”

“Star chart update,” Hornfels said before taking a sip of their tea. “Seeing a few gaps.”

“Mmwell, at least they’re having more fun than Riebeck. Gabbro’s poking around in that workshop with the creepy statues. Said you were all worked up about your new addition.”

“It’s very well preserved,” said Hornfels.

“Creepy. Don’t like ‘em,” Esker said firmly. Hornfels could _hear_ the stubborn set of their jaw.

“Maybe I’ll have Gabbro bring the next one to your base.”

“Gravity’s low out here, I could throw it at you.”

Hornfels held their mouthpiece up to reply when the yawn came at them from nowhere.

“Don’t usually hear you sound tired,” Esker said. “Old age finally getting its hold on you?”

“Not before you, I hope.” Hornfels retorted as soon as they regained control of their mouth.

“Nope. As you well know since it was you who told us this, time goes faster at the bottom of a gravity well. And you live in one deeper than me.”

“I knew you were listening during our campfire chats.”

“Only on account Feldspar always went after you! They took it as a personal challenge to wake us all up after your lectures!”

“Bah,” Hornfels said, but remembering Feldspar put them in no mood to take it any further than that.

“So? You calling it an early night?”

“Hardly. I’ve got my own observations to make. Just tired from setting up the statue. Then there’s the launch tomorrow. Got to keep a pair of eyes on the weather.”

“Right, right, the hatchling. Hm. This one know the difference between an aft thruster and a fore?”

“Yes, Esker,” Hornfels said indulgently. “Slate tells me their piloting is… adequate.”

“Hah! Well. Maybe you can tell them to make a stop at the old Attlerock base as a quick shakedown run. Make sure they know how to land that thing before they try setting down on a planet that’s liable to get them killed.”

“Not lonely, are you?”

“Slate trusts the ships they build more then they trust the pilots who use ‘em. The last one Slate called ‘adequate’ gets terrified looking at stars. Stars! What else is there to look at out here?”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“There needs to be a second opinion about this sort of thing, that’s all I’m saying. Third, maybe, after Gossan. But still!”

Hornfels smiled softly. Their chair squeaked underneath them. “Of course.”

There was a beat of silence. “Any celebration planned for the launch?” Esker said, breaking Hornfels from a personal reverie.

“Mm? Oh. No, no. Not many folks interested in watching a space launch these days. The little ones love it of course. But I imagine it’s mostly Slate. Their Hal, too, I suppose. It’s not like the old days.”

“Mm,” Esker said.

Hornfels took a sip from their tea and leaned back. Holding their mug in both hands, its warmth pushed against the chill of the night. They looked up at the wall, at the pages tacked up in the wood, their scrawl of equations and the smear of light from telescope photos still visible in the dimness. In the middle was the largest printout, a circle of black flecked with bright smudges. All around it, more pages with hurried, scribbled notes describing the discovery there.

About a universe that was scattering, running from itself.

“You ever think of the old days?” they said spontaneously.

“Hm?”

“When we weren’t all so…” Hornfels stole another look at the wall. “Far apart.”

Esker grunted, a blast of static over the speaker. “Shouldn’t I be the one saying that? I’m the one that’s out here. Gossan and Slate are in the village with you.”

“Ah, well. We don’t get together like we used to. Less campfire stories, more work. And… with Feldspar gone…”

“Mm.”

Hornfels sighed. Behind them, the orrery ticked on, the universe grew further and further apart.

“The old days don’t ever come back,” Esker said. “It’s why it’s the old days.”

“So you never miss it?”

“Course I do. But… well, it’s not just us anymore. New explorers, new campfires. It’s not us around them, but they’re still there.”

“What if they won’t be?” Hornfels said, their eyes still fixed on the blurry image.

“How so?”

“What if there’s no more campfires? And the distance just gets bigger and bigger. And we’re all moving away.”

“In a dark mood, tonight, aren’t we?”

“Maybe I am getting old.”

“I always said you need to get out of that observatory. Get away from that telescope. All that cosmic nonsense does you no good.”

“Says the Hearthian on the moon.”

“I grow trees. Stars don’t matter to a tree. But I can reach out and touch them and water them. You can’t do that to a star. You just watch ‘em. Makes you feel like you can’t do nothing.”

“Maybe you can’t.”

“You can dance can’t you? Play an instrument? Tell stories and swap dirt and sing songs around campfires and laugh and smell the fresh pine. Drink sap wine and eat marshmallows and give your well wishes to your newest astronaut and tell them the next campfire story is on them. And if you want to feel sad about how things are changing and it all seems far away, well, you can cry about that too. There’s no shame in it, if it’s true.”

“You’ve thought about this.”

“I’ve been up here for a very long time.” And maybe the Attlerock had slid into the right position for it, because Esker’s voice came through as crystal clear as if they were there in the room with Hornfels. “And if this _is_ the last campfire, well, it’s the last campfire. Can’t be helped. But somebody’ll play a song around it. And maybe the universe don’t give a lick about songs, but I’ll be damned if I care what such a universe thinks.”

“Ah, Esker. I always preferred when you got cantankerous,” Hornfels said fondly.

“You just send that new astronaut of yours my way and I’ll hope that they’re not as much of a downer as you are, y’hear?”

“Indeed, I do. I can’t make any promises. I’m not the one in the pilot’s seat and from what I’ve seen they’re… distractable. As likely to plunge into Dark Bramble as they are to visit the moon.”

“Stars above. Well, let’s let that chip fall where it may. What else is going on? It’s so boring up here.”

“I do have some ongoing developments between Gossan and Porphy to report.”

“And you were holding out on me so you could be sad into your machine?” Esker said. “You’re ridiculous.”

“That’s all in the past, now. Don’t be churlish. Anyway, as I was walking down to the launch platform yesterday…”

And the two spoke as the night deepened. Two voices beamed into the night until the Attlerock slipped past the far horizon.

When Esker signed off, Hornfels blinked blearily. In the morning Outer Wilds Venture’s newest astronaut would be waking up from their sleep beneath the stars and it would do to tidy up a bit before they came for the launch codes.

As Hornfels inspected the museum displays, they passed by the Nomai statue, silent and looming and its three eyes closed in an expression of serenity and sleep. On an impulse, Hornfels brought their hand up to the statue again.

It wasn’t a solid piece of rock. There were mechanisms inside, their purpose beyond what anyone could figure. And the eyelids were hinged, but no amount of force could get them to open. Was it all some device? Was it meant to see? Speak? Something more?

Hornfels moved closer as they spotted a dark streak in the stone, a line of moisture running from one of the closed eyes. They moved their fingers to trace it and when they pulled their hand away, they rubbed at the water on their fingertips.

The rain on Giant’s Deep never ended, and it was inevitable that some would get into the inner workings of the statue. It was still dripping wet when Gabbro hauled it off their ship.

Hornfels smirked. If Gabbro were here they would say it was crying. Very poetic. But it was just water draining out. They hitched up their sleeve and wiped the wet trail dry.

Afterwards, they stepped outside and they breathed in the cool air as they looked down and watched the campfires and cabin lights as they were dimmed and extinguished, one by one until it was just them and the darkness.


End file.
